


The Sacred Texts

by ThisisVenereVeritas



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Ass Play, Blood, Crying, Eldritch Devil, Hand Jobs, M/M, Massage, Mildly Dubious Consent, One Shot Collection, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Tentacles, Trans Male Character, Tumblr Prompt, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28846908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisisVenereVeritas/pseuds/ThisisVenereVeritas
Summary: Guarded by a hermit and member of the Church of the Black Klok on a remote island, these lost texts reveal hidden secrets not quite unrelated to the prophecy.A series of explicit one shots from tumblr. Pairings will be included in the titles, and pertaining tags in the chapter summaries.
Relationships: Charles Foster Offdensen/Pickles the Drummer, Magnus Hammersmith/Pickles The Drummer, Melmord Fjordlsorn/Blues Devil, Melmord Fjordslorn/Magnus Hammersmith, Nathan Explosion/Skwisgaar Skwigelf
Comments: 18
Kudos: 22





	1. Chickles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Handjobs, massaging 
> 
> Rating: M

The screams and howls that consume the dungeon hallways leave Charles weary. Hours of marching through hard stone floors, unlocking bolted doors that reveal klokateers pulling teeth or nails from some no-name who pirated the latest DVD, song, or interview. Walking into small, windowless cells with stone walls lined with torture devices designed with the sole purpose of stretching the agony for as long as possible. Asking for reasons, taking notes and racking a tally of suitable punishments. Whips for him. Two years of hard labor for her. The dogs for this fellow. Rubbing his ears right as he leaves the room, just when the klokateers begin their despicable routine. Wrinkling his nose under the pungent smell of blood, vomit or human waste. Pulling his handkerchief from his inner jacket to wipes the blood splatter from his glasses. 

Exhausted from a long day of interrogations, inquiry upon accusation of whatever atrocity or sin committed by a deranged, misguided, or selfish fan, Charles wants nothing more than to turn it off.

To turn it _all_ off.

...

“God, yer tense.”

Charles sighs under the sharp, white ache as two thumbs roll into his shoulder blades, pressing hard against several days’ worth of paperwork, meetings, business calls, screams and pleas, bloodshed, gunfire and attempted assassinations. Shirtless, and jacket neatly folded on a nearby chair, Charles rests on top of the bed, stomach flat save for the occasional shift of breath brought on by Pickles’ tender onslaught.

“Need ya to relax a bit more, Chief.” Pickles purrs the command into Charles’ nape, letting hot exhales raise fragile hair up while simultaneously working to break down the stress, random destruction and lack of sleep all bunched into tight knots.

His hands roll down to the small of Charles’ back, pressure firm and constant, reaching deep and pulling apart the aches, tearing through the dull, but prevalent pain that settles across his back. Pickles reaches the pivotal spot, that portion of the lower back that bore the most tension. Using his weight, he drives forward, pushing against heated skin, raised hair and beating down and breaking apart the fatigue and soreness with a new ache that leaves Charles relieved, but wanting. The agony, tightness brought on from a series of bad news dissipates with the ball of Pickles’ palms pressed against the lower spine, asserting itself and fighting against the wall of limber, but taut muscle. 

“That’s better,” Pickles says, stopping a second to pat Charles’ splayed arm. “There ya go! Relax, and ye shall receive.”

Charles witnesses the gore fade from memory at the increasing fold, Pickles driving deep, consuming the pains and leaving behind newfound strength, excitement, and desire. Through a heated gaze, Charles barely makes out his glasses in front of him, and wishes he had the hindsight to have left them with the jacket. The pressure builds, furrowing into a small, central divot. The palms continue to push, adding weight and forcing a gasp from Charles at the sudden feel and sound of a loud _pop_. The pain bursts, exploding like a bubble, and Charles flops into bed, shaken with a mild sweat.

His eyes flutter to a close as his head flops on top of messy sheets. “Ha…”

Above, Pickles chuckles. He cracks a few knuckles, enjoying the show as Charles goes limp under him, breathing turning uneven at the much-needed relief. He cracks his knuckles as Charles reaches for more sheets, buries his reddened brow against the blankets.

The tension is gone now, along with the weight and recollection of whatever had been stressing him out from before. All Charles knows is the soft collection of random sheets and blankets, smell of weed, alcohol and incense hanging in the air, and drag of slow playing stoner rock pulling him deeper into a calm, a restfulness that beckons him into the dark. Pickles slides down, and Charles, assuming the session is over, attempts to roll on his side, but is stopped by fingers, a single palm holding him into place. Eyes opening, Charles detects the second hand resting near the base of his spine. He doesn’t recall there being any pain in that area, but when it drops to the side, wriggles between sheets and his lower stomach, he hears another snicker from Pickles.

“Still tense, I see.”

A blush erupts across his face at the suggestion, but when Pickles reaches for it, rubs Charles through the front of his pants, he feels _that_ tension rise. Suddenly, his body alerts him of the hours he spent answering various calls to company heads, rescheduling tour dates, and appointments. Fabric grinds against his being, turning him rigid once more, but desiring nothing more than to continue that deep massage, that hand that will numb, consume, fulfill and make him forget everything.

Charles wriggles under the friction. Uhm, Pick– _oh_.”

“Don’t fight it, dood,” Pickles warns with a suggestive tone. “Let it happen.”

The mattress underneath groans as Pickles readjusts himself for easier access. He takes Charles with him, getting him to rest on his side, snatching blankets with him as Pickles reaches for the zipper to free and further relieve his manager of the remaining ache now focused between his legs.

Blankets pile around Charles as he reaches out to grip more sheets, bringing them to his face to smother the noise fighting to escape his lips. In most cases, it wouldn’t be a big deal, but he’s too tired to fight it, and knows Pickles’ work will bring out the worst in him. As he fears, Pickles hand trickles inward, takes him by the base and offers Charles the most tender of holds. He gasps, smothers his face, but Pickles reaches forth and pushes them away, surprising Charles and leaving him exposed to unfiltered sighs and groans.

“Naht this time,” Pickles says, grinning and showing off his whites before beginning his work.

The grip and rhythm serve its intended purpose, and the moment Charles is hit with it, feels a rush of ecstasy drenching his drained body. There’s no will to fight it, no strength to protest, and he succumbs with a moan, loud and unforgiving, lacking any sense of shame as he stretches out to give Pickles more access.

The large bedroom fills with whimpers, hushed uneven exhales that bounce against stone walls and grow in strength. Victim and source, Charles sinks, curls and tangles under Pickles’ influence, willing and unrelenting as each groan grows in desperation. Vision blurs into a glowing fog, and he can barely make out Pickles above him. Through the noisy chaos, Charles feels the other hand work its subtle magic. Hair comes undone, scuffled under dexterous fingers. His pants sink below his knees. Thumb rolls over his neck, trace over his jawline, but not once dares to cover the music erupting from Charles mouth as he’s played like an instrument by a set of dangerous, talented hands. 

“Ah, oh!” Charles shudders, hips starting to sway and coincide with Pickles’ increasing rate. He lets out a noise that drowns out the music playing on vinyl, the sound of Pickles’ hand working his shaft, and the few dwindling thoughts that once burned his mind. It shocks him at first, but just as he gasps for air, is met with another desire to cry.

Under the fog, the intoxicating fumes of alcohol, lust and increasing groans, Pickles chuckles. “I love the sound ya make when you come undone.”

 _It's all gone_ , Charles thinks, before fading into a mixture of desire and mere instinct.

All gone. 

All that’s left is Pickles.


	2. Nategaar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you sure that’s what you want? I could really hurt you.”
> 
> Tags: Rough sex 
> 
> Rating: E

Loud, deafening music filled with the demonic yells and incomprehensible lyrics shuts to a halt, coming undone at the smack of Nathan’s fist hitting a remote before his mind follows. Fingers gripping his roots initiates the rough, blind smack, sending the device flying upwards and off the bed, into the deepening void that makes up the bedroom. The world around him evaporates, leaving only the massive bed and blurry, iridescent glow of nearby aquariums that let Nathan know he’s still in his room.

In his room, with Skwisgaar. Normally, a sensual liaison, but after several bottles of hard liquor, Nathan’s taste grew bitter and, much like the alcohol, the desire for something strong ignited. It takes subtle coaxing, suggestive hints that don’t outright give away what Nathan craves, but leave the Skwisgaar curious. Another shot, and Nathan tells Skwisgaar what’s on his mind, first as a joke, but when the man starts to circle him, Nathan doesn’t bother trying to go on the defensive. He accepts the invitation: a hand trailing across his back, and those pale, frost-blue eyes that linger, read Nathan’s body language to determine if he’s serious. Nathan breaks into a short chuckle, letting his grin turn Skwisgaar’s stare predatory before being pulled away from the bar, into the bedroom.

“You likes that, ja?”

The question fights against a cacophony of unrestrained sounds: skin hitting and rolling across shaking legs, Nathan’s nails pulling and gripping the sheets, clenched teeth pushing out loud, short grunts. Though the larger of the two, Nathan quakes under each thrust, face rigid and pained each time Skwisgaar slams into him. Every move is hot, and Skwisgaar’s presence burns his soul before retreating and leaving him starving for more. The pain, sharp and wet, is fleeting. The rush Nathan experiences each time Skwisgaar returns, rough and unrelenting, is insatiable.

“I saids do you likes this?” Skwisgaar repeats, voice louder and carrying over Nathan’s vocalized anguish. His fingers curl, tumultuous hold shifting into a rough yank as he pulls Nathan by the roots, forcing a hiss out from his lips as he’s taken from behind. “Answers me when ams talkinks to you’s!”

He relinquishes his grip, lets messy strands fall and stick to Nathan’s face. His hand retreats, taking company between the waist and legs, guiding them back up as Nathan’s shoulder threatens to sip under the rapid pace. For a moment, Skwisgaar slows, rhythm shifting to a more shallow, slower beat that Nathan cannot endure. He lifts his head up, responding to the slight tickle as Skwisgaar’s hand goes deeper, traveling across his inner thigh and leaving behind traces of delightful prickles before settling close to Nathan’s erection. A flick of a finger against the wet, slit tip ignites a sharp pain, an injection of steamy hot adrenaline and cold sweats that almost makes Nathan collapse.

His nails tear at the sheets as Skwisgaar grips him, folding around the throbbing organ and soothing that pain with a motion of jerks. Nathan shudders at the sudden transition from agony to nearing ecstasy. It’s not unwelcomed, but he misses the music. The loud rhythm. Slamming. Sweat. Pained howls. Raw heat. Rage.

Skwisgaar’s hands work his cock better than any instrument, and it feels heavenly, but as far as Nathan is concerned, the affection arrives too early.

He throws his head back, and with a chuckle, asks, “That all you got?” 

Skwisgaar stops touching him. “Em’cuse me?”

Nathan draws his head forward, stares out into the dark of his room, past the torn curtains and shadows, and at a glowing aquarium. He can barely make out his grim, but satisfied expression, can see his hair all askew, iris lined with red from Skwisgaar driving deep inside him.

“C’mon, Skwisgaar,” Nathan says through uneven breaths. He stares at his murky reflection, a blurry beast on all fours, and snickers. “I get a better workout when I practice my vocals.”

Skwisgaar leans forward. Nathan sucks a breath, feeling Skwisgaar and everything he encompasses push up against him. Fill him. Change him. Every inch alters his form, has muscles shifting, spine curving, lungs and heart swelling and eyes watering from the ever-encroaching release. But Skwisgaar only moves to get near him, to get as close as possible before reaching that pivotal impasse, stopping when the base of his cock pushes against Nathan’s quivering foundation.

Nathan just barely makes out the ghostly figure haunting him, now reflecting in the aquarium.

“Ams you sure that’s what you wants? I coulds really hurts you.”

It’s a fair warning. Nathan can feel his constitution shudder at the words, body breaking into goosebumps at the concern, hair rising at the thought of Skwisgaar pummeling and reducing him into nothingness. His mind reels over Skwisgaar worried for him, at the pale figure watching him under the fluorescent glow of water, both savior and harbinger of his demise. 

Nathan meets Skwisgaar’s reflection head-on with a snort.

“Think I can handle it,” he replies, rising into a grin before having his head shoved into the sheets by a surprisingly powerful grip.

Sheets scream as nails claw blindly, mattress groans under unforgiving thrusts and body threatening to topple. 

Muscles ache. Eyes sting. Roots burn. Weight doubles, and the pain and pleasure mounts. 

The world around them vanishes, leaving behind only Skwisgaar and the void he fills.

Through a bleeding lip, Nathan smiles.


	3. MagMelm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Pegging, Trans male character, rough sex, crying 
> 
> Rating: E

Melmord was never one to take things seriously, but when Magnus had him pinned against a wall, slick tongue dragging against rough stubble, and him whispering his intentions straight into Melmord’s ear, he made a vocal point to inform the more aggressive of the two that, for once “size most certainly did matter.” Up until tonight, he’d only known Magnus through a more… _traditional_ sense. Of course, he _also_ shared his abundant eagerness, but as he tried meeting Magnus in the eye, felt the increased prickles cover his ears and nose. He must have looked like a fool when he said it, too, because Magnus chuckled hot air into his nape and, after another suckle turned bite, informed Melmord he wouldn’t dare break him so early.

“And didn’t you say the fun was in the journey?” he exhaled across Melmord, voice leading him away from the wall and towards the bedroom.

It began with a mixture of foreplay and teeth sinking into his shoulders, hands reaching around and toying with him, fingering him, all while Magnus snickered and, with that cruel stare of his, reminded Melmord to relax with a smack. A hot, red slap against his upper thigh ignited the most relaxing shiver, sent a ghostly shudder up his scarred back. Melmord reached for blankets as Magnus massaged, pressed the base of his palms into red, welted cheeks. He spread Melmord, dropped and let the tip of that small, elastic toy strapped over his frame tease Melmord’s lubed, fingered hole. He buried his face into a pillow, embracing the cool wash while Magnus positioned the head over the crinkled opening, rubbing and earning desperate, airy whines before surprising Melmord with another series of spanks or pinches. 

“You’ve quite the endurance,” Magnus said after some time, petting Melmord to slow his unsteady breath.

Melmord was lost, mind clouded with unique elements of carefully applied pain, and gentle caresses that suggested that Magnus cared more than he let on. Hard to say if it was the endorphins or blood pumping, but a nagging voice told Melmord that there was more to the breaks between strikes and bites than simply calming him down. There was more to Magnus’ cruel eye than sadistic curiosity, the desire to watch him squirm, break into nervous laughter or go silent when he finally grew bored of foreplay and whipped out the main event of the night.

 _Someone’s feeling sentimental,_ he mused towards himself, but dared to test unknown waters and cast out a line in the form of a playful grin. Nothing too wide to suggest he was admittedly curious, not so much for what awaited him, but the worry that his mask might come off as too distant, too unbecoming in that small, unlikely possibility Magnus cared.

“You sound happy,” Melmord remarked as he slumped into messy blankets, hiding a wince when raw skin met with the gentle resistance of the sheets.

A haunting chuckle above him sent forth a magnificent charge. Like a hit from a good spliff, Melmord thought, then fingers traced his spine, riding its arch as Magnus drew nearer fresh markings.

“I am.”

The words were few, but made Melmord so very hard. His cock practically dripped at the low rattle, the hum of Magnus’ throat so laced with pleasure and adoration for Melmord’s suffering. And still, there was more. Especially now, with Magnus practically on top of him, silicone and fitted leather rubbing against his tender rear. Melmord didn’t want to risk turning around and looking too deep, read in between lines that didn’t exist, but figured there was definitely more to the man’s lust-filled words. 

_Making a lot out of nothing_ , he pondered to himself, then snickered at his own damn ignorance. 

“Something funny?” Magnus asked, hand sliding up the nape of Melmord’s neck.

He shut his eyes, expecting Magnus to take him by the roots and continue the steady line of torment with being pinned and fucked without warning, but instead, went lidded at Magnus combing through his damp, messy locks. Rough, but oddly sensual. _Magnus_ , his body knew, but Melmord stopped it from tricking the rest of him into believing there was more to the familiarity. It was just another liaison, another quick fuck.

“Finally, I get something right for once,” Melmord replied. “I can die happy now.” 

Magnus didn’t respond to the joke and, instead, lifted himself off from Melmord. 

“Get on your back.”

Melmord was already aware of the intimacy associated with face-to-face fucking, and didn’t know if he was ready to deal with that, along with the tremble that continued to persist with his uncertain heart. It was proving too difficult to say whether it was the sight of the toy, the fact Magnus offered and was so excited and, Melmord, making too much of what could easily be a man demanding some validation, adding it up and hoping Magnus just wanted him enough that it didn’t matter if he was getting anything direct.

If Magnus fucked him now, like this, then Melmord could go on accepting the man just wanted to fuck. There’d be no issue, no questions and, once Melmord finished crumbling over a toy dick smaller than his own, they could go at one another and move on. But if Magnus had him turn around, he’d see how woefully unprepared Melmord was to get fucked by Magnus and a beginner-sized toy selected for the very occasion. Why so small, too? Did it mean he cared, or did Magnus pick it out after he had made such a big deal about size and readiness? 

_Thinking too much_ , Melmord concluded, and when Magnus drew away to grab the lube, Melmord shifted his position, rolling off his stomach and falling on top of his back. The pain from the welts sank with the mattress. Somewhat appeased, Melmord sighed through his nose, letting the cool air from the blankets underneath to help distract him from the sight of Magnus coating the dildo in a hefty amount of lube. 

The voice in his head wondered if there was significance to the layers of oils dripping off the toy, but like before, Melmord tossed it aside in favor of blissful, _fleeting_ ignorance.

With a controlled smile, be asked, “Want me to go down on you?” 

“Buying time?”

“Nah, just love seeing you wet,” Melmord answered, drooping stare turning torwards Magnus’ inner thigh. The strap-on and dildo were nice and shiny from the lubricant, and though Melmord was sure the toy hadn’t changed in size since Magnus had fastened it on, did feel increasingly intimidated by its presence. So small, he thought, and just for him. Only him, too, because the base sure as shit didn’t reach far enough to get Magnus off, at least as far as Melmord could tell. Admittedly, he lacked any experience with pegging, but never had associated it with closeness. It was a novelty. A kink. A means to an end.

 _Just a means to an end_ , Melmord tried to convince himself, even after Magnus rejected the offer in favor of adjusting their positions which, obviously, Melmord wanted to ask about. Was it really alright? No head, no fingers or tongue? What about you, bro? You can’t tell me watching me get fucked is enough to get you off. Unless it is? Is it?

“You’re tense.”

When he came to, Magnus had returned to fingering him. Melmord’s legs were spread, and Magnus hovered above him, one eye glowing while the other emitted a glimmer of what Melmord wanted to interpret as concern. With Magnus hitting his prostate, finding the right joke was difficult. Somehow, Melmord managed through it, navigated past all the questions he was never going to unveil before Magnus, over the tightening mesh of sensitive nerves his fingers kept striking, and let out a jagged, uneven laugh.

“Sorry. It’s my first time.” Melmord formed a pout. “Be gentle.”

“Hilarious,” Magnus said, then removed himself from Melmord to grab the base of the toy.

Expression unwavering, Melmord couldn’t interpret whether the remark was true sarcasm or not. Perhaps it was for the best. 

“Relax for me.” 

That proved easier said than done. Whatever Magnus laced that cock in left it warm and slippery, and the moment it aligned, rubbed and pushed against him, had Melmord struggling to keep himself loose. It was strange, firm and foreign, but at the same time, tickled Melmord better than any finger could provide. He was busy keeping face when it slipped inside, tapered head piercing and sliding right in and making him squirm at how firm it was, and the way it realigned his entire body as it sank. There was hardly any give as Magnus carefully pushed forward, but Melmord shuddered and squirmed with each textured inch. Unlike the real thing, it didn’t need or want for pause, and with Magnus’ guidance, wormed its way into the end of that very first section, fitting Melmord perfectly, as though it were always meant to be.

Melmord twitched at the first sign of leather hitting his cheeks. _“Ah.”_

Hands held him by the legs. “I’m all the way in.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

When Melmord opened his eyes, Magnus was grinning at him, clearly pleased at whatever he was seeing. Melmord tried not to dwell on how red-faced he was over a measly four, _maybe_ five inches of nothing that was quickly crescendoing into something massive. That smile wasn’t helping. Were Magnus’ eyes always so frightening? Shoulders and shadow cast by them so menacingly wide? Melmord never thought he’d find intimidation sexy as hell, but here Magnus was, scaring him out of his wits with that piercing stare, sharp grin and hips rocking so slow Melmord clung the sheets to help deal with the changing stretch.

 _So we’re just fucking then_ , Melmord concluded when Magnus broke into a mean snicker. It was a relief to know this wasn’t anything more than that. This was just them screwing around. As always. Again.

A hand graced his jaw with its presence, and Melmord opened his sore eyes he hadn’t even noticed had closed. Above, he stared at that blurry, dark mosaic of Magnus, and his throat tightened, ensured with emotion. Shit, was this really getting to him? He had to squint his eyes to focus on his form, watch it dive near, pushing the dildo right back in. Melmord hissed a gasp, but Magnus captured some of it in his mouth, suffocating the rest with a kiss that yielded no biting, sucking or even the teasing nip. There wasn’t any time to analyze the kiss. Magnus proceeded to thrust, motion burgeoning into a steady rhythm. Melmord’s vision turned again, releasing swirls and sparklers across his sights whenever Magnus pushed and rolled that cock’s head over his prostate. Each attack sent a wave, a burst of blinding, white light.

Melmord huffed, moaned into Magnus’ mouth where it was swallowed up. He heard his voice disappear under the sounds of skin against skin, leather and metal groaning under an increasing pace, and the wet smack of Magnus hitting him. His own voice muffled, that same one from before arose, more vocal than ever as it insisted there was more to this than simply fucking.

When the kiss finally broke, Melmord filled the room with his uncontrolled pleas. Apparently, he was a yeller. A moaner. A damn slut for a cock that never had to stop.

“Am I going too fast?” Magnus heaved after a particularly sharp cry. Like everything else before, it left Melmord wondering. Was Magnus getting tired of the unending sway, or was he getting anything from this? If not, was he at least having fun?

Melmord ran a hand through his damp strands. “Nah, go at it, bro.”

Cruelty shone in Magnus’ eyes. The same hunger Melmord was used to seeing, only now he was confident there was a deeper, more meaningful shine. Even with his vision a mess, he made out the formation of a frown shift into a curious, playful grin at the permission to go wild. The grip around his thighs grew tight, hungry with desire. Melmord hung his head back, eyes turning lidded and heavy from the mere implication. 

In another, better world, he’d ask Magnus. Melmord was confident he’d have the balls to bring it up, inquire if this was more than just them getting their willies off, or two guys making the most of their weekend. He’d demand to know when Magnus memorized all his good spots, and if he was fucking him slow on purpose, or if it was just out of politeness. Was Magnus facing him to enjoy the show, or was there more? Did he want to fuck him in the first place…was this still fucking? Was it fucking with Magnus holding him tight, exhaling Melmord’s name into his ear right as he cried out amidst their shared struggle. Their legs were twisted, arms wrapping and entangling over and under one another. Did it still count? Did staring deep into Magnus’ eyes, visiting his own stained expression, make it any more special? 

There was something so painfully intimate about it, and with audible smack bouncing off the walls, became frustratingly difficult to ignore. Magnus was grinding, groaning against him, moving in tandem and making Melmord forget that the toy that racked pushed him nearer to tears wasn’t an extension of Magnus. The old mattress underneath shook and moaned alongside Melmord, choking the room with his defeating pleas, legs kicking up and twitching at the intensifying strikes.

“Do me a favor?” Melmord asked between dying throes. He was shocked how hoarse his voice had become, how muddled his vision, and how it all cleared when Magnus entered his fatigued, hazy sight. 

“Hmm?”

“Don’t stop. No matter what.”

Magnus raised brow, signaling that thought hadn’t entered his mind for some time. Good, that was promising. Melmord could rest assured that, at the very least, once it became too much, and his façade fell apart, Magnus might confuse the waterworks for some new kink. Melmord was sure he mentioned liking it rough, anyways, and knew he could handle Magnus screwing him past the tears, lapping them up or even going as far as to use them for lube if he assumed that it was all fun and games. He didn’t know what he’d do if Magnus viewed it from another lens and, out of real concern, stopped to ask what the matter was or, god forbid, ignored it despite the signs.

“You sure?” Magnus asked, readjusting Melmord’s legs. “You did say you’ve never done this before…”

 _Just ask_ , some trembling voice hidden under years and years of backstabbing and betrayal pleaded. A miniscule, pathetic sound, if at that. By now, it was more a throb, a pulsing heartbeat that searched to make meaning out of nothing, that begged to know whether there was real life after death, if someone could really see beyond the scars and shady past and view him as a potential partner, someone worth craving and desiring over anything else.

Another stabbing throb tore at him, sliced across his heart when Magnus drew close one final time.

“I was joking, dude,” Melmord lied, swallowing his breath as he wiped the corners of his eyes, and stopping Magnus from coming any closer. “You know me. I like to take a walk on the wild side.”

Somewhere, between the rough grinds, the rolls that had him losing control, breaking and gripping Magnus as though his life depended on it, Melmord convinced himself he’d ask next time. The speed increased. Magnus turned nasty. Melmord yelped, succumbed under unforgiving thrusts, thanked the stars shooting across his eyes that Magnus didn’t cease, didn’t fall along the stream of tears and continued to fill and fuck him. Somewhere along the line, Melmord forgot–no, _learned_ there was more to the toy, to the unceasing rhythm that ailed him. His body screamed _Magnus_ , moaned it out with cold shivers and rapid shakes that smacked against the older man’s form. His body told him. Reminded him there were still the constant throws, the hand holding him in place, the other coiled around his own cock and giving it quite the work. Melmord held himself right under the umbrella of unyielding pain, ignoring the heart and rest of himself that told him Magnus picked up on his impending climax, was going deeper just for him, to milk it out, to turn those stars into exploding fireworks.

_If only…_

“My god,” he heard Magnus say above him. His deep voice wavered, chest expanding rapidly and eyes crazed with ecstasy as he pulled out and admired the wet mess and sounds that spilled out from both the hole and Melmord at once. He slapped a hand on top of Melmord’s shoulder, holding and rubbing tenderly, his touch spilling a blissful wave that both pleased and pained him. 

“You showed me,” Magnus said, grin widening at his own compliment. “Next time, I’ll step it up a size.”

 _Next time_ , Melmord realized and, once the words sank in, broke into a sob.


	4. MagPickles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: E
> 
> Contains: public sex, rough anal sex, ass eating, fingering, stretching, trans male character, crying, drug and alcohol use
> 
> Anyways, this one is a mess. Enjoy?

Like everything else between them, nothing, including sexual favors, could ever be normal. Like a bad drug being dangled in front of him, Pickles listened to Magnus’ latest request over a beer, lips and nose wrinkled inward when Magnus purrs out his desire to fuck Pickles “in the open” is finally announced. In the ass, of course, because what good is a pussy to a man who gets off pain and humiliation?

It took two weeks of convincing to get Pickles to agree to the idea, even after Magnus retold some tales of past experiences. The anecdotes, though distressingly detailed, did little to quell the fear of being caught. Magnus insisted this wouldn’t be the case, claiming that most people would be too afraid to approach, much less act on whatever they were caught in the middle of doing. Eventually, after more persistence and whines from Magnus, Pickles settled on a place located a few cities away, and told Magnus they wouldn’t start until sundown.

The place they selected wasn’t so much a park as it was a miniature nature walk. It was located on top of a hill, situated in the middle of several well-to-do neighborhoods. Pickles picked it for a multitude of reasons. The place was nice, and nice neighborhoods usually had rules about curfews or hanging about in the open in the middle of the night. Such acts were associated with delinquency, and, god willing, would result in fewer chances of either being seen. That, coupled with the many detours, smaller and more intimate trails, helped settle Pickles to a more comfortable state, though his nerves remained on high the second he and Magnus parked the car and made their way inward. 

Admittedly, it was a nice park. The main trail leading up the hill consisted mostly of trees and greenery. On their way up Pickles counted a few bridges, a man-made stream, and a few benches decorated with typical neighborly flair. There were flags, a few tables, but most of all there were fences and houses. One short break allowed Pickles to test a fence decorated with blue passion flowers. While Magnus sat on top of a bench and rolled himself a spliff, Pickles neared the backend of a gated mansion and poked his finger through the vines and leafage. He couldn’t make out what was on the other side. Hopefully the same could be said of the owners, though the hilly range made Pickles less than confident. Unless he and Magnus dragged their asses to the very top, anyone could still come across them. It certainly didn’t help seeing all the locals, but Pickles knew that was the point. Gotta get that high somewhere, and when the crack doesn’t cut it, what better way to deal than to make your own?

It was late in the evening when they reached the end of a twisting trail that led to the top of a wonderfully barren, but otherwise scenic view. As Magnus walked to a tree and a worn picnic setting, Pickles neared the edge of a small cliff to stare downwards. There were hardly any people out, save for the teens and more daring hikers. Pickles hoped the chilling winds winding up their current location would scare anyone from going any further. The only reason neither of them were shaking was cause of the drugs, and Pickles still flinched at the sharp bite that brushed under his dreads and slighted the back of his neck.

Luckily for Pickles, Magnus had a flask on him, and as they waited for the remaining locals to retreat, earned a few passing glances and glares as they downed cheap bourbon and talked about upcoming rehearsal. Admittedly, the hike wasn’t as bad as Pickles thought it would be, though his anxiety never quite reached a tolerable level. Were it not for the “end goal,” he might’ve considered something along the lines of a respectable date. Since passing the backyards of massive properties, they entered a nice, woodsy route crowded with trees stained with knife carvings and graffiti, stumbled upon a stable filled with resting equine and chickens, a small clearing constructed to look like a meadow, and watched rabbits peek out of their burrows once the noises died down.

But then, this was far from a date. No, this was Pickles doing a good friend a favor, and letting Magnus fuck him in public. Cute rabbits aside, this was a whole lot of work for a seven minutes of heaven, if at that.

But just as Magnus promised, they were relatively high upon a hill, hovering several feet from the nearest cliff-side mansion or bougie estate. As far as Pickles could tell, they were out of sight and out of mind, but a quick glance downward and he could make out the backyard of someone who owned a Jacuzzi, and another who was in the middle of combing their cream-colored pony. With a controlled squint, he was sure he could make out the last of the committed hikers making their way down the zigzag descent. 

God, he would have to hike down that later. 

“How are you feeling?” Magnus asked suddenly, causing Pickle to stumble back and away from the cliff. As he shot Magnus a testing stare, said man raised two fingers hosting a lighter and another spliff. 

“Outta shape,” Pickles remarked, then snatched the lighter and laced cigarette from Magnus. It took three flicks of the lighter to get a good stream going. A taste revealed more tobacco than weed, which, given Pickles increasing anxiety, was a bit of a travesty. 

Pickles ate through half the joint when he noticed Magnus hoisting the backpack he brought with them on a branch of a nearby tree. A second of fishing through the contents, and he pulled a roll of condoms from its depths. He ripped one from the line.

Pickles nervously rolled the joint between his fingers. “Not gon’ tah bother checking for locals?”

Magnus stopped to gesture at their surroundings. “No one’s here.”

Hearing the words made Pickles reflexively shiver. He only realized how little the backyards did in keeping away the frosty breezes that were rampant at this height. The problem with fucking on top of a damn hill. He finished his joint, then snubbed it with the heel of his sneakers. Shivering, Pickles approached the picnic table, crossed his arms and listened to the distant sounds of laughter taking place beneath them. 

He looked over a decrepit fence, frown extended when he thought he saw someone jogging upwards. 

“Don’t worry.” Warmth slipped up from behind, and Pickles’ waist was suddenly, and possessively, grabbed and pressed against Magnus’ thin frame. “I’ve done this a few times before. I know what I’m doing.”

His words, hot and full of confidence, splashed against the back of Pickles’ nape. It filled him with a unique eroticism he hadn’t felt since he was younger, and far more famous. An irrational, but loud voice in his head asked him when was the last time he had sex out in the open, surrounded by so many potential onlookers? Pickles had played the role of sex god, of dominator, and had even been made a sexual mockery before, but not quite like this. The safety of knowing nearly every man or woman in the room, of being safe in a familiar setting despite, was gone. Old Pickles would run across stage naked and be asked to perform an encore. Tonight, nothing. Before, he was polished in colognes, lotions from after a long shower. Right now, Pickles was still wishing he had fanned his pits more. He was out of shape. He was a damn mess, and Magnus was breathing up his back. It was so frightening, and yet painfully exhilarating. Exactly how Magnus said it would be once they reached the top.

Pickles barely had time to absorb all of this before he noticed Magnus’ cool fingertips feeling up his back. His top was being lifted, pulled by the hungry drag of a hand. 

“You’re shivering,” Magnus commented. His voice was deeper, full of air. A string of words made to raise even more goosebumps and hair, the bastard. 

Pickles licked the top row of his teeth. Without glancing too far down, he could see moving spots. With the sun sinking low, it was hard to tell just how many, or if they were even human. Another cruel breeze swept over them, and Pickles huddled closer to Magnus, feeling the raging heat radiating from larger man’s chest and abdomen. Contagious, it wafted into the air, covered and drenched Pickles in a wanton desire. He was cold, but Magnus was so very, _very_ hot, and with a belly full of syrupy bourbon, and a brain clotted with tobacco and cheap weed, Pickles was starting to feel more confident and increasingly aware of his own, unattended needs. 

Pickles’ eyes lingered on the blurry, moving figures below. “How are we doin’ this?” 

“Right here, of course.” Long, dark hair cascaded over Pickles’ bare shoulder, blanketing them with a carnal heat. “Just barely out of sight.”

Not looking behind him, Pickles asked, “And if we’re caught?”

“We drop everything and leave, including the backpack,” Magnus replied hastily. His hand gripped Pickles at the waist, while another set of fingers ran further downwards and rubbed his inner thigh. The sensation alone was enough to stir him to life, sending a distinct yearning between Pickles legs.

“Fuck,” Pickles hissed, hand reaching back and blindly sitting Magnus’ side. “I swear tah fuckin; god, if you get us arrested–”

“We won’t,” Magnus insisted. His hand moved, resting itself at the front of Pickles’ crotch. Magnus fondled the button and freed it from its waistband, then took no time to slip his hand inside. “Besides,” he said, leaning more of his weight on top of Pickles, “the two of us have gotten away with worse.”

“We have,” Pickles agreed. They were in fights, run-ins with the law before this, and got off scot free. While Pickles wasn’t sure about the setting, knew at the very least he could dip and slide down the gravel before making his sorry escape. 

“So, then?” Magnus rubbed the bulge of his pants against Pickles’ rear. “Relax and let me give you a good time.” 

A hell of a request, coming from Magnus. Not that Pickles doubted the man’s capabilities. On contraire, the man had a way with fucking. Pickles didn’t consider himself a masochist, but Magnus provided the right amount of pain with his pleasure. He knew how to fuck Pickles hard without making him dysphoric, like a man asserting himself over another. It was the unnerving winds that carried sounds of names and laughter that kept Pickles from sharing the same enthusiasm. Still, with a hand now sliding down his front, Pickles closed his eyes and tried bringing his attention to fingers now stirring his arousal alive. Magnus pressed against him, making Pickles jerk underneath. He leaned back, gripping Magnus as best as he could, staring out to the darkening sky as Magnus rubbed the base of his palm over Pickles’ sensitive dick, fingers pushing against his moistening slit.

“Are ya’ fer real?” Pickles grunted, then flinched once more when Magnus’ fingers parted him before proceeding with a deeper, harder massage. 

“I said we would,” Magnus replied right as Pickles’ head sank to watch the magic unfold. He saw the very end of Magnus’ wrist, dark hairs raised with the dropping temperatures, move and play him like a damn fiddle.

Pickles rolled into the hand. “Ya did.” 

Long fingers slickened with his own fluids slipped over his form. Fingers pushed around him, teasing him with the thought of entry, sweet friction and stretching and fucking. There it was. Right as those fingers parted him once more to tease the swelling flesh, Pickles sought nothing more than to feel Magnus roll right into him, fuck Pickles until he came so hard he bruises Magnus’ pristine cock. 

“Well? Do you want me to stop?” 

“Nah,” he quickly replied, giving into a distressed, nervous smile. 

“Alright then.”

Magnus sounded so damn pleased of himself, Pickles almost thought to rescind the consent. Almost, but a thumb rolling over his cock, followed by the chill of a wind, made him forget and focus on chasing after raw, wet heat. 

Magnus pushed against him. “Close your legs.”

Pickles lifted his head. “Odd ting’ to ask me, but, whatever.” 

Magnus chuckled into his neck. Another wave of raised hairs travels down Pickles back as Magnus pulled his hand out from Pickles’ tight jeans. He grabbed the pants band and, with a quick, firm yank, managed to pull the pair down to Pickles buttocks. 

Now exposed, Pickles experienced a harsh rush of cold winter air blanketing him. He shivered, feeling the heat of his erection dwindle, the moisture collecting at his lips chill and work against his very arousal. He suddenly became aware of chirping birds, bugs singing and harmonizing with one another with their steady tempo, and the sounds of not-too-distant cars driving down the road. 

Magnus pulled the pants down further, stopping once he reached the knees before returning to press the front of his pants against Pickles’ naked rear. 

“Bend over a bit,” he asked, voice riddled with excitement. Pickles grimaced at the demand. He could practically see Magnus rubbing his hands together, eager for a taste. More cold than horny, Pickles reviewed the duration of their hike, the multitude of breaks, and wondered how Magnus would be so turned on knowing what awaited him. But Magnus continued to pester him, hands and weight compelling Pickles to finally take a few steps back before shifting into a new position. Pickles rested his hands on the old, dried remains of a wooden fence. Some of the wood underneath him began to crumble under his weight, but the post remained mostly solid. Pickles bent down just a little, spreading his legs and making sure to produce a nice enough arch so that Magnus would have a nice view of his ass. 

“Well done,” he heard Magnus comment. Pickles’ shoulders burned at the compliment. He sank his head right as Magnus gripped his butt cheeks. The act sent him flying. Fuck, this was happening. Pickles bit through a tight smile as Magnus pinched and pulled the white, round skin, snickering at the bright temporary blemish each attack left behind. That was his Mags. Guy just had to leave pocks and scratches all over his body, strawberry colored hickies that never crept above the belt, but marks that still made Pickles question his sanity the morning after. 

Another set of nails pinches him. 

Pickles hissed, back arching all the more from the sharp stab that prickled up his spine, dowsing his neck in a cold sweat. 

“Havin’ fun back there?”

“Mhmm,” Magnus admitted, then laughed as he smacked his palm against Pickles’ welting cheeks. “For a man of your lifestyle, you’ve got quite a delicate rear.” 

Another smack, and this time Magnus hit the very end of Pickles’ parted lips. He jolted, feeling the tender sting race inside him, awakening a deep, unfulfilled yearning. Another smack, and he felt the imprint of his design wet against Magnus’ hand. Another, harder and leaving an icy sting, and Magnus retracted. Pickle was sure he saw his fluids coating Magnus’ hand.

“What have we here?” Magnus brought his hand up to his mouth. “What a mess you’ve made already.”

“No tanks to you,” Pickles remarked through gritted teeth.

“You’re welcome.” Magnus snickered before popping another finger into his mouth.

Pickles sneered at the sight. The pressure was piling, extended deep inside of him, and there was nothing he could do. Sure, he could turn around and threaten to kick Magnus’ ass for trying his patience, but it was hard to get a point across with one’s pants were down. That, and there was something flattering about Magnus slurping up his fluids. Magnus wasn’t the easiest guy to satisfy, but when he craved something, made one hell of a show of it.

Pickles bit his cheek. “Y’know, instead of snackin’ on that, you could–”

“Yes?”

Pickles turned his head away from Magnus, back to the orangey sky. “…eat _sometin_ ’ else.”

The comment was less a suggestion, and more a submissive plea. The exact opposite of what Pickles had intended, but now that it was out…

“Is that an invitation?” Magnus inquired. He let out a small chuckle before stepping back. 

Pickles looked over his sweltering shoulder. “What are ya–”

“Turn around and hold onto the fence.” 

Pickles listened as he heard Magnus drop down to his knees. Those same rough, large hands returned, grabbing Pickles and spreading him nice and wide it almost stung. Wincing, Pickles submitted to the man’s unbridled force, and raised his ass up to offer Magnus a most humiliating view of his backside. His eyelids lowered as warm exhales tickled his taint, causing the muscles in and around the area to twitch in anticipation. The hair across his lower back and rear rose. Pickles broke into an excited sweat. Magnus pushed out another hot exhale, this one a fat burst that made Pickles pucker. Lips wrapped around his asshole, supplying it with a firm kiss. Coarse, uneven facial hair brushed and tickles Pickles cheeks. Base of the beard tickled his parted slit.

Finally, a tongue. Wet, pleasant warmth began lapping at his taint, coating the fine, short gap with trickles of spit and inspiring flicks. Pickles’ mind drew a blank at the contact. He uttered a single, staggered sigh, letting his head dip forward and sink as Magnus slid up and down the sensitive flesh, tongue flat and lapping him like his sweaty, dirty body was a damn popsicle. The sex gods answered his prayers, and Magnus squeezed between the thin gap of Pickles’ legs and flicked his tongue over the split lips. He tongue molested Pickles, sliding over the parted flesh, and letting Pickles grind against the delicate friction he provided. The tip came close, but never reached his neglected cock.

“Gawd, Mags.” Pickles went back to biting his lips as he rolled his hips to meet Magnus’ mouth. “Keep it up, dood. Don’t stawp.” 

Magnus went along with his long, extended laps, sliding up and down, teasing Pickles with the occasional brush or poke of his fingers. Pickles sank, getting as close as he could without outright sitting on the man. But right as Pickles edged closer to Magnus’ face, he felt a shift in motion, and jumped as the tongue darted closer to his rear. Catching his panic, Magnus took him by the hips, holding Pickles into place. 

“Shit, Mags.” Pickles heaved a rushed sigh. “Ya’ nasty fuck.” 

Another brush of the tongue slipped over his now twitching hole. He swallowed, gripped the old wooden frame keeping him together, and shuddered. 

Magnus stopped to readjust himself. “Tastes so damn good,” he said without checking to admire Pickles’ reaction. “Look at this tight, pink hole!” he said, loud enough to earn a sneer from Pickles. “Already starting to gape. What a slut.”

“This slut’s feelin’ rather dry,” Pickles interrupted, eyes now set on the scene below. “And be quiet! People will hear us.”

“Dry?” Of course, _that_ was all Magnus heard. Pickles almost rolled his eyes, but stopped as fingers rubbed his front, then sank into him. Pickles’ shut his eyes, ignoring Magnus’ laughter as he swayed into the man’s fingers, chewing the side of his tongue and fighting a twist of his leg whenever Magnus curled his fingers and dragged them across all those deep, delicate spots. “Funny, you don’t seem dry to me.” 

“Less talkin’, more pleasin’.”

A chuckle. “Look who’s shouting demands now.”

“Ya want to cum tonight?”

That shut Magnus up long enough for him to remember this evening’s intentions. He withdrew from Pickles’, then, after making a show of licking his fingers clean, patted Pickles’ on the rear before politely asking him to relax. The spread returned not much longer, and with it, that perverse flick. Next, Magnus darting in and out of him like they hadn't just hiked two miles up a damn hill. Magnus eating him out like Pickles didn't work up a sweat and take several smoke breaks before reaching the top.

The thoughts didn’t weight Pickles’ sensibilities for long. Magnus ate him up, slurped his asshole till it twitched long after he parted. He spread his tongue over it, gripped each cheek and parted it as far as he could to capture as much of Pickles as each would allow. He turned his mouth in a damn weapon, stabbing and penetrating Pickles, rendering his hole weak, loose and trembling.

The void that haunted his front was now rooting itself in his behind, cursing Pickles with an unnatural yearning for more. Unwilling to have that desire left unanswered, he pushed his weight against Magnus, who seemed to understand this unspoken gesture as a demand to travel further inwards. That small tongue stabbed past the first ring, and Pickles felt its bumpy allure graze and assault his inner walls. A hot, airy gasp escaped him as he fought the urge to rock his hips forwards. His dick burned. Pickles released a hand from the fence, using it instead to rub his swollen, neglected cock. With his thumb, he massaged the hot, aching head. His body shook from the touch, and each time Pickles squeezed the organ, tried rolling his foreskin over the small appendage, saw his vision begin to turn.

“Aw, Mags,” Pickles whined, throwing his head back and smiling under the sparkling array of burgeoning stars. 

Muscles continue to twitch, but with each work of Magnus’ tongue, eased and relaxed. Each slurp made Pickles looser. Each wet, sickening sound made Pickles feel less of a man, and more of means to an end. A hole. A toy. 

“Don’t stawp.”

His hips shook, following a withdrawing tongue. He was wet, sweating, gaping and in need of more. He wanted to get fucked, get fucked hard. A tongue wouldn’t’ suffice.

He needed more.

“Put it in,” Pickles asked once Magnus finished eating his ass, parted, and then returned with a bottle of water. He was very aware of how desperate he sounded. He was also very aware of the fact that he was making demands half naked, with his ruined pants still sinking bellow his knees.

Magnus nursed his bottle, eyes leering into mischievous slits. “Is that how we ask for things?”

Pickles rolled his eyes before returning his previous position. “Get on with it before I kick yer ass instead.”

Horny or not, he was not going to play mind games with Magnus. He was doing him a hell of a favor as it were, and the longer Magnus took his time, the more aware Pickles was of the dropping temperature, and dwindling sunlight. 

“Alright,” Magnus said. He tossed the nearly emptied bottle aside before undoing the button and zipper of his worn, faded jeans. “Hopefully you’re loose enough.”

“Didja bring lube?” It was a worthwhile question. He’d taken Magnus before, and was always surprised to discover how gifted the man was in both girth and arch. The curve was stiff and unforgiving, and with Pickles nearly a foot shorter, didn’t want to deal with a potential limp going down the hill. 

“Give me a second,” Magnus replied, sounding a little annoyed. Knowing him, he’d probably wanted to go in raw with as little lube as possible, Pickles thought. Anything to risk getting caught. Gotta chase that high. 

“Don’t go easy on that stuff,” Pickles warned when Magnus returned with a tube of lubricant.

“With what I intend to do?” Magnus asked while popping the cap off. “I wouldn’t dare.”

Pickles took the foreshadowing with a grain of salt.

Something cool and creamy pressed against Pickles’ ass. Two of Magnus’ fingers slipped inside of him, spreading soothing, thick lube inside of him while also stretching further. Pickles shifted in his position, feeling his rear rise as a third finger easily slipped inwards, coinciding with the others, massaging and working deeper to stretch him out. He jutted, groaned miserably as Magnus scissored his asshole. Fingers pushed into his gut, placed a phantom pressure over his frontside. Pickles felt himself dripping down his legs, soupy fluids getting caught in his leg hairs as Magnus increased the rate of each rough jab. Any pauses were brief, lasting long enough for Magnus to reapply another coating over his fingers before returning to torture Pickles. Though staring out, Pickles saw the increasing number of fingers tearing at him, reducing him to a mere organ with one purpose. Each time, Magnus dove roughly into him, testing Pickles resolve to remain relaxed, loose and willing. His body’s first inclination was to always close, but the pain wrought from four knuckles reaching against his stretched circle forced Pickles into submitting to the opposite. He huffed, bite his lip till he nearly broke the skin, to keep under control.

Pickles was nearly in tears when it was over. His shoulder and face were red, glowing bright from biting down, choking loud cries and moans from Magnus’ handiwork. Physically, he was exhausted, already worn from nearly being fisted by a man so much larger than him. Mentally, he was on fire, and while Pickles suffered from the burn, still wanted to dance in the spiraling flame.

Pickles wiped snot from his dripping nose. There was no time to relax. 

“I’m going in,” Magnus announced, taking one of Pickles' cheeks in his hands while his other began prying for entry. “Be a dear and raise your ass up for me?” 

An instinctual urge overtook Pickles, and he lifted himself up as best he could, relaxing his loose wet hole and taking in the head of Magnus’ cock with hardly any effort. It was everything after that small, round head that caused Pickles’ legs to shake, his mind to go numb and feet rolling up to his tiptoes. His insides stretched, filling and sweltering with intense stimulation. His front ached, as though aware of the odd coupling taking place. Pickles ignored it, shut his eyes and exhaled, focusing on his ass just being a hole. He relaxed as best he could, taking in about half of Magnus’ length before feeling a dull hit that made him twitch jump in his spot. A barrier. His own darn walls. Before Pickles could think to clear his mind, Magnus held him down and, muttering something barely audible, forced Pickles into place before shoving the rest of his cock inside. 

Pickles bit his lip, but it wasn’t enough to stop some guttural, animal sounds to erupt from him. He felt Magnus’ glans push through, causing some noticeable pain, while his front, wet and loose, quivered in delight. The thought that Magnus might give his other side some attention arose, but was snuffed when he felt the final inch sink into him. Balls pressed against him, temporarily sticking against the slick now freely running out from him. Pickles easily envisioned the sight, and snickered. A rumble bubbled in his abdomen as he wiggled his stuffed rear into Magnus, fighting against a guilty sigh when the pressure it caused sank and pushed against all the good spots. The wonders of a nice, girthy dick. That joy quaked up Pickles’ spine and spread across his belly. Something cool and thick oozed out from his front.

Once they were situated, and their breathing slowed to a calm, Magnus tapped Pickles lightly on the back. He felt the man twitch inside of him.

“Cover your mouth,” Magnus warned. 

Despite his current condition, Pickles couldn’t help but be offended. 

“S’cuse me?” he said, but just as he tried to turn, Magnus pushed him back down and grabbed him by the hips. He pulled out a few inches, exposing his cock to the cold air for just a second before slamming back into Pickles. Pickles stifled a sharp yelp, feeling the tight rings inside him shudder around Magnus' shaft, each contraction causing the rest of his inner being to collapse and consume him in a welcoming, but resistant heat.

“Fuck yes,” Magnus moaned, arching his head back and smiling as he began rocking into Pickles, motioning slow, but aggressive. “Fuck, Pickles. You’re so tight.”

“Stop talkin’ and get tah’ work,” Pickles heaved back, body already breaking into a fit of trembles.

“Don’t need to ask me twice.” If possible, Magnus gripped Pickles’ hips tighter, and proceeded to thrust as deep as he could. Pickles held in another groan as he felt his body adjust, stretching accordingly and taking each rough fuck. It didn’t take long for Pickles to feel that second ring inside of him succumb and expand under the pressure. His body leaned forward with the intense smacks. Sweat and fluids ran down his spine, between his spread cheeks, and to his soaked, stretched asshole where it flung off each time Magnus’ rammed into him. Their collision ignited a flurry of unrestrained yelps and groans, body smacking into a wet mass, air protruding from tiny gaps. Pickles moaning for more. Pickles screaming and fighting back tears when his calls were answered. 

The pain, once prominent, was overcome by an intense, fulfilling sensation. That wonderful arch pushed right against that other tunnel, providing ample pressure and pleasure whenever Magnus slowed and allowed his weight to settle. Pickles’ legs started to shake. His frontside dripped streams that broke and fell into his hanging boxers. Shiny webbings of his and Magnus’ precum intermixed, met each time Magnus pulled out of Pickles ruined ass, and collected when he drove back into him. 

Another deep thrust put Pickles close to the edge. His head dipped down, and his arms, once strong and able to support his weight, started to break under all the weight. 

“Aw, shit. Mags, don’t stawp,” he moaned out.

“You like that, huh?” Magnus taunted above him. “Like it when I fuck your nasty hole?”

“Whatever, dood. Jus’ don’t stawp,” Pickles said aloud, uncaring of who might hear. He barely noticed, but in the distance, could see the faint glows of manmade lights speckling the hills underneath. People huddled in their living rooms, or settling down for dinner. Was Pickles ruining their night with his heated cries?

Did he give an actual shit?

“Mags. I’m so close!” Pickles swayed his welted ass into Magnus' lower abdomen.

“Yeah. Yeah. _I get it._ ” He sounded annoyed, but then Magnus took one of Pickles’ trembling arms, pulling it back and taking Pickles with him. Pickles winced as he sank into Magnus, not understanding the intent until Magnus’ other hand reached around and began playing with his cock. 

Then, the motions returned, shorter this time, but in their current position, rubbed far enough for Pickles to find the combined stimulation overwhelming. 

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Pickles practically sang out. “Mags, ya’ bastard!” 

Even with their limitations, Pickles rocked into Magnus, enjoying the brief sink and squelchy sounds of their connection. He happily squeezed his asshole around the base, milking whatever precum he could, eating Magnus’ cock and relishing in the restrained grunts and growls being whispered into his neck. Index and middle fingers parted through red pubes and lips. They rolled and played with Pickles aching cock, placing firm pressure on each side, and sending the raging fires burning within him into a massive, uncontrolled blaze.

Pickles went stiff. “Fuck,” he spat, muscles locking into place before unleashing a series of unrelenting spasms. Magnus held him as Pickles shook, fell into a pit of lava that melted his nerves, numbed his brain better than half of the stuff he injected into him. A hot, dry orgasm that crept from behind, overtook his lower half and rendered it useless. Every muscle inside of him folded, clenched Magnus and fought against his intense tremble. It hurt. It hurt so much, and Pickles couldn’t stop it, didn’t want to fight as Magnus tore him apart. 

“Oh, Pickles,” Magnus said, savoring every sweet contraction with an unforgiving jerk. “ _Pickles_.”

Pickles coughed out a yelp as Magnus pushed a deep, agonizing thrust into him, his shaft pressing hard against Pickles’ tightening interior. The feeling was overwhelming. Pickles shut his eyes, feeling heat spread across his neck and face. Another burning coil inside of him snapped, unleashing an intense pressure that had been mounting since Magnus started fucking him.

He clenched his teeth as a stinging hot ray overcame him. His body shuddered again, weaker this time, and Pickles barely had any strength left in him to keep himself standing, much less beg Magnus to stop. His hands dove to his now tender cock, swatting away Magnus' hand, but all it did was give the man permission to take Pickles’ hips with both hands. Magnus shoved himself as deep as he could, relishing in the texture and feel of Pickles’ body surrounding him. Pickles cried out, entire upper body falling forwards as he faced a final series of deep rocks that stung more than satisfied. Still, trapped within his second orgasm, Pickles milked Magnus dry, sniffling all the way through as he did. 

As Pickles fell onto the ground, sinking into the sticky afterglow, the hill echoed Magnus’ name.

It sounded strikingly close to his own voice.

…

Magnus tied a knot around the opening of the condom before swinging it high into the air and sending it off the cliff. 

Not too far off, in an open patch of space, Pickles lay on top of an old beach towel. 

He took a drag of a cigarette he was sure was laced with something other than weed, wondering where the hell time went. When they had parked, the sun was still up. Each time Pickles blinked, only saw the deep expanse of space. 

In the end, no one caught them. By the time they were done, and Pickles found the strength to get back on his legs, realized the hikers had long left the scene. Even then, Pickles knew in those final throes he had gone feral and screamed like a damn banshee out to haunt the night. God forbid some kid heading to bed heard him crying out Magnus’ name. 

Magnus took a seat beside him. Pickles watched him settle in his peripheral, then caught the mystifying swirls of rainbows lining his vision, and realized it was LSD. He took another drag, watching the stars above start to dance. The pain in his lower back vanished, and when Pickles turned, he saw Magnus smiling at him with honeysuckle eyes. 

Pickles offered Magnus his cigarette. 

“No, that’s for you,” Magnus insisted, bringing Pickles’ hand down with a wave of his own. “How about a kiss instead?” 

Pickles snorted, hand to cover his mouth as to not fill the night with his uncontrolled laughter.

“Wit that mouth” he said, pointing the cigarette at Magnus’ now hurt expression. “I don’t think so, dood.” He slapped his knees before settling on top of his offended companion. He pinched a tight cheek. “Tell yah what. You down another water bottle, gargle real good, n’ we’ll talk, okay?”


	5. Blues Devil/Melmord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: E 
> 
> Contains: tentacles, eldritch god-powers, dubious consent, implied sex pollen at work, and overall weird imagery. 
> 
> I'm honestly kinda ok with this one.

Melmord wasn’t much of spiritual man, and thus never thought much about life after death. Sure, his mother took him to church right before the major holidays, used religion to justify a means to an end, but once Melmord left the house, he tossed all considerations aside for a taste of the seven deadly sins. A bounteous amount of pride in his every step, a little bit of greed littered across carefully written contracts designed to milk his clients for all their worth, and a hint of sloth in the form of a freshly rolled joint each night since he turned sixteen. A sprinkle of envy towards the man who carried the torch to the biggest band to ever exist, and unfulfilled gluttony to claim them as his own. Finally, wrath which, until now, had mainly been ignored. It was Offdensen stabbing and watching him fall, Melmord learning of his true origins, and silently admitting he stood no chance against the crossroads demon as he currently was, that filled him with raw, shapeless rage.

How fitting then, and so very appropriate that Melmord would welcome lust in the form of an inviting kiss, and was now facing the unholy flames with a side dish of spicy, musically charmed tendrils dancing and entangling his bare legs.

Just seconds before, he met with thin, ghostly pale lips, and when Melmord stared into a pair of mismatched, but unnervingly attractive pupils, fell into each crescent pool and drowned in them simultaneously. Stark white liquid filled his lungs as he sank deeper into a pit of swirling, bubbling black. Melmord splashed, struggled to reach the surface, and when he breached, was pulled immediately into the scorching, tantalizing flames of a wild, melodic hell.

It was a hell not too dissimilar from the one Melmord watched growing up as a child. Cartoonish depictions of a constant fire were now raging in the backdrop, whipping the air with a tempered heat that, even from a distance, teased Melmord with a scalding sting. The heat was, as the priests had warned, intolerable. However, there were no brimstones to be seen, no altars piled with the suffering bodies of fellow sinners. When Melmord gasped his first breath, tasted no sulfur, but the subtle, salty aftertaste of passion, and when he stared beyond the blasphemous inferno, saw this version of hell had a limit. There were walls behind the flames, twitching with life, and shimmering wet like the interior of his cheeks. While Melmord frantically fought to free himself from the sinking waters, saw the walls shift and pulsate as the blaze danced and licked the it with wild fury. Instead of little devils stabbing him with the tips of their pointy tridents, Melmord was yanked out of the terrifying depths by a strange, mystical force. First unseen, Melmord only detected it by sound, picking up on its howls and notes while it swirled, completely unseen, and grappled with his form, lifting it from the waters and towards the towering flames.

He grunted when he was thrown to the ground, the flooring hot and slippery as the walls were in both appearance and design. Melmord grimaced as he pulled himself up, mildly perturbed when he raised his arm and discovered he was completely naked. He didn’t remember being that way when he fell. Had he shed his clothes when he was under the water, and if so, by whom?

“Blues?” Melmord muttered, lifting his eyes towards the blackened ceiling above. 

The nickname sent the flames ablaze, the fleshy walls to shudder and muscles underneath to retract. The flames that coated the room now sank, and the intensity of the storm's movement, though still unpredictable, shrank in size, crackling to less threatening form. As the fire died down, long, dark streams oozed from the cavernous pores. Thin tendrils, black as coal, slithered from the contracting walls, coiling amongst one another, forming tightly knit groups of five before thrashing and emitting growls and hums of off-tune music. Melmord watched, equal parts entranced and horrified at the sight, as the hums and growls of trumpets, guitars and strings fused into a sultry melody, bulking the finer vines, and transforming their already disturbing forms to something far more threatening. The greater tendrils extended out, creeping towards Melmord. He tried backing away, but the surrounding heat made it impossible for him to travel more than a foot before the lowering inferno lashed at his naked back. Melmord hissed at the searing intensity that scourged around him. The pain struck him, turning his vision white. It prickled every pore, had his heart racing, his body heaving, shaking legs kicking out as the snake-like tendrils bound nearer. It burned, it stung, and it left behind a faint whisper that, mixed with the fluid now coating his bare form, melted into his scalded flesh, leaving behind an unbearable ache.

Melmord moaned. Tendrils emitting encouraging notes of low strings and bases wrapped around his ankles, slithered up his legs and effectively ensnared Melmord in their firm, yet tender hold. Singing. A black, thin vine swooped around his leg, and as it tightened its hold, unleashed a song that was frighteningly familiar. As more surrounded him, tested his defenses with a poke or prod, so did the music grow in strength. 

His attackers were singing out notes and wails from greater pieces… songs that Melmord recognized. _Shit._

He brought up an arm. What for, Melmord couldn’t say: the moment he saw his fingers splayed out, reaching for the blackened void, for a possible escape, several more tendrils latched on and brought it down, and whatever hopeful plea had entered his mind was, much like the rest of him, smothered in a web of wriggling, music-infused insanity.

Blues filled him. Chaos infused him. They played a godforsaken sound that consisted of hundreds of different voices crashing on top of each other, wrapping around Melmord and sneaking and slipping into various nooks and crannies. The combined danger coated him with a sticky, sweet-smelling liquid that left his sensitive, seared skin more perceptive to touch. His body burned, but this time for contact, and before long, the cacophony of unfiltered voices, howls from saxophones, tickles from fiddles and airy gasps from harmonicas began to rearrange and organize. The vibrations of each note made Melmord’s overly delicate nerves explode, his body go rigged with uncontrolled spasms and shakes. He cried out the Devil’s name, but was met with no reprieve. Black coils snaked around his waist, then rooted itself to the ground. Another slipped over his stiffening cock, drenching it with that irritatingly sweet fragrance. Within seconds Melmord was hit with the desire to touch himself, kill the uncontrolled arousal now torturing every inch of his body, but the tendrils held him in place. With nothing to do but watch himself be consumed by the expanding darkness and increased volume of haunted spirits whispering his name through the tips of each wriggling tip, Melmord groaned out for mercy. Hell. This was hell. 

The air grew thicker as the flames shrank to a mere several feet. Melmord squirmed under his tightening hold, struggled as tendrils pulled his arms behind him, fought to find space in closed off areas, and warp over his neck and mouth to meet his lust stricken eyes.

Melmord stared helplessly at his unholy oppressor. Not one centimeter of his body wasn’t covered in that sticky perfume, and Melmord could hardly think with his hot, throbbing cock now jutting out whenever he struggled against one of the many tentacle-like stems molesting his body. The heat from the flames drenched him in sweat, worked to coincide with the overpowering whispers and accompanying instruments demanding Melmord to secede, and clouded his mind further by repeating it nonstop. Melmord shook, suffered through it all, but still stared at the expanding void that spread and twisted around him, licked his body with a rough, but sensual drag, or gripped him firmly to unleash a sweltering burst of sexual relief.

“Mmmph.” The moan was smothered the second Melmord opened his mouth, drowned under a release of fluids that poured straight into his throat. Melmord thrashed under the unrelenting hold, against the tendrils working so hard against his favor. He tasted something astringent, stinging his throat with a spice that, the second Melmord swallowed, afflicted him with an impossible desire that he could neither suppress nor satisfy. If he wasn't hot and bothered before, this certainly did the trick. If Melmord wasn’t miserable enough, the tube writhing into his mouth and filling him with ecstasy concentrate easily put him over the edge. 

Hell. Tears raced down Melmord’s flushed cheeks right as he felt the tendrils slide over him, torture him with their subtle jerks and grips, never giving him enough to finish what they started. The encompassing inferno raged on, and Melmord, trapped at the center of his personal, eternal suffering, broke and submitted to a smothered hum that matched the tune that now filled the room. 

Singing. Melmord heard it all around him, inside of him as the cruel, twisting length extended further, penetrating and carrying the sins and voices of every soul that struck a deal with the Devil.

This. Was this the afterlife that awaited him once his contract ended?

Melmord might’ve feared for his life, but the distractions inflicting his every nerve distracted him from dwelling on any matters aside from his own suffering, the need to fight, flee, or beg his master for mercy. 

Then, the Blue’s Devil parted, breaking the kiss, and sending Melmord back to the world of the living.

He gasped the moment the demon left his lips, and fell to the floor with a loud, limp thud. Barely aware of his current surroundings, Melmord uttered a whimper. With a trembling hand, he touched his burning mouth, then looked around the dark, dreary office space he remembered the Blues Devil invited him into, having a conversation with before being transported to...well, _that_ place.

“Well?” the Devil said above him. Melmord stopped rubbing his lips to glance up at the set of eyes, one milky white, the other blacker than space. “Was it everything you hoped for?” 

Everything he hoped for? It took a second for Melmord to connect the dots, and another to recall the comment he made, the question he asked regarding gods, demons and sexual attraction, and whether such boundaries could be broken between them and regular mortals. With some concentration, Melmord saw the events play out, leading to that pivotal moment where, after come convincing, the Devil shrugged and proposed a kiss.

“ _Just_ a kiss,” the Devil had said. Then, once it was all said and done, Melmord could decide for himself if it was worth the trouble.

Melmord sat upright. With his other hand, he reached for his neck. The tendrils were gone, and all Melmord felt was the soft silky design of his tie, the cold sweat that emitted from his active pores. No more fire, walls made of flesh, or magical tentacles singing his name before slighting and getting him drunk on fumes that left him dumbstruck and impossibly horny. 

And from a kiss, too. Just a kiss.

Still quivering on the floor, Melmord lifted his heavy head and faced the Blue’s Devil with a haughty, albeit, twitching grin. “So, what happens if we French?”


End file.
